


take this the wrong way

by jazzonia



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Bottoming from the Top, Couch Sex, M/M, Multi, Oral Sex, PWP, Post-Case, Rimming, Threesome, Threesome - M/M/M, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-01
Updated: 2015-12-01
Packaged: 2018-05-04 06:29:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5323985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jazzonia/pseuds/jazzonia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Lestrade go out for a celebratory pint after closing a complicated case. One drink turns into four, and when they head back to Baker Street things take an unexpected turn...</p>
            </blockquote>





	take this the wrong way

They’re in the pub down the road from Scotland Yard taking long sips from celebratory pints. John’s running on three hours’ sleep and Lestrade probably less than that, but the eight-day-long manhunt is finally at an end. They can both drink to that.

“No one told me how much bloody paperwork there’d be.” Greg says, turning the coaster beneath his glass. 

“As a copper, or as a DI?” John asks.

“Both, but I had it easy when I was in uniform. Now it’s approve this, sign that, cross-check reports with field notes, ‘Oh, sorry, sir, I must’ve mixed up the robbery on Brixton with the one up Whitehall.’ Absentminded bloody tarts, the lot of them.”

John laughs. “Sounds a lot like the student workers at the clinic. Patients get cranky when we ask them about medications and allergies at every visit, but I’ll not be the one to tell them that a hungover uni student stands between them and a life-threatening allergic reaction.”

“To the NHS!” Greg says, raising his pint. They clink glasses, but when Greg goes to take a sip he gets only air. John snorts at him through a mouth of lager, coughing as it goes down the wrong pipe.

“You’re a public hazard!” John says, wiping tears from the corners of his eyes.

“Isn’t that line reserved for Sherlock?”

John rolls his eyes, but Greg still notices the red tinge of his cheeks. _One to think over later._

“It’s like they go down easier each time, isn’t it?” John says, turning his empty glass in precise half-rotations on its coaster. Greg grins.

“Now that is definitely a line for Sherlock.”

John’s mouth falls open, Greg’s stomach flips over, and a matching flush spreads over both men’s faces. Greg backpedals right quick.

“Oh, that’s not—give me a break, mate, it’s half eight on a Tuesday and you’ve gotten me properly pissed.”

“I’m two drinks ahead of you!” John raises his empty glass in demonstration.

“Well I can’t tell. Then again it’s never a good idea to go toe-to-toe with army men, is it?”

“Nonsense,” John says, but Greg can tell from the pleased little smile settling into the corners of his mouth that John is flattered.

_Bloody right. The man deserves some appreciation._ Greg, entirely too infatuated for his own good, hides his smile behind his pint glass.

John slides sideways off his bar stool. “I need the loo.”

Greg nods, turns his glass round on the bar top, watches him go. After a moment, though, he realizes his bladder’s fairly full as well. He crosses the bar and enters the men's toilets.

“Couldn’t wait?” John asks as Greg approaches the urinal next to him.

Greg laughs, a half-pained sound, but shuts his fool mouth before he can say anything more. John doesn’t miss a thing, of course.

“What’s that?”

“Nothing, ‘m just knackered.”

John zips up and turns to face Greg. “D’you fancy coming back round the flat? Sherlock had all those samples to analyze, he should be out all evening. Likely through tomorrow afternoon if I’m to hazard a guess.”

Greg keeps his gaze toward the floor. “You sure you’d rather not take advantage of the quiet when you have it?” A beat passes, causing him to look up at John. The other man’s face is more tender than Greg’s ever seen it—directly, he means, excepting the few times he’s seen John look over at Sherlock when he thought no one was watching—and the unguarded expression in John’s eyes makes him shiver.

“Yeah, I’m sure. Come on then.”

***

It takes about ten minutes for them to get to the point. 

They grab a taxi back to Baker Street, unwilling between the damp and their inebriation to negotiate the Tube. They stumble up the stairs, mindful as they can be of Mrs. Hudson, and John tries the lock twice before they spill into the flat. It’s warm enough that Greg sheds his scarf, coat and jumper all in one go. John hangs up his jacket with deliberate precision that tells Greg the other man may be feeling the effects of four pints after all. 

Greg takes the sofa, toeing his shoes off and sprawling across two of the three seat cushions. His head fits snugly against the backing, supporting his neck just the right way even as the lumpy pillow sends warning twinges into his back. 

He must groan, or something, because when he looks up John is standing over him, grinning, with a whiskey in each of his hands.

“I’m convinced the sofa’s only comfortable after drinking.” 

“Why do you keep it, then?” Greg takes a sip out of his glass, blinking long and slow against the burn of the drink.

“Easier, I suppose. And Sherlock likes it for thinking.”

“Ah, yes, for the Patch Problems.”

John snorts. “I reckon there are a few patches under there, not that I want to look.” 

“Go on, then! I bet you’ll find more than four.”

“What’re we wagering, then?”

“I’ll see when I win.” Greg smirks. 

“Right, let’s see, then.” John sets his glass to the side and gets down onto the floor, inches from Greg’s left leg, to peer under the sofa. He reaches under and pulls out two dust-ringed patches.

“Disgusting.”

“This is not a good bet,” Greg agrees, even as his cheeks flush with John’s new proximity. He hitches his left leg up beneath him to give John access to the rest of the sofa. 

“Aha!” John sits up on his heels, shoulders squarely between Greg’s knees. “Just one more. I’m afraid that makes you a loser, Detective Inspector.”

“Where’s the independent corroboration of your testimony, Dr. Watson? You could well have ignored a whole treasure trove under there.”

“I guess you’ll just have to trust me.” John’s lips curl into a smile, sweet but playful. Sexy. 

Greg leans forward before he can realize what he’s doing.  They kiss, gasping, and Greg’s thighs close of their own accord to frame John’s warm muscled torso. 

John groans when Greg’s thighs tense, then again when he squeezes his knees together deliberately. The hot flush of John’s body against his is better than Greg ever imagined—and imagine he has, in the shower and on the Tube and alone in bed late at night. Nothing wrong with a workplace crush, though of course Greg’s comes with added complications.

“Are you sure—”

“Stop talking,” John says, and _oh_ there’s his hand cupping Greg’s erection through his trousers. His head falls back, his hips snap forward, and he barely has time to open his eyes again before John’s got him in his mouth.

“ _Fuck_ , John,” Greg gasps. It’s wet, warm, a bit rougher than he’d’ve guessed. He runs hesitant hands over John’s jumper-clad shoulders, down his arms, then back up to dip shallowly under the neck of his shirt. 

John drools greedily on Greg’s cock as he moves up and down, tongue laving the head as one hand finds Greg’s heavy low balls. He very nearly thrusts into John’s mouth, but he holds himself back, unwilling to let this end so quickly.

“Up, up, fuck, c’mon,” Greg mutters, tugging at the hem of John’s shirt. He stands, shedding his clothes faster than Greg thought possible. Greg yanks his own shirt off, John settles across his lap, and he takes both of them in hand for a couple rough twisting strokes. 

John shudders, hips bucking up into Greg’s grasp of their own accord. His eyes open to reveal such wanton lust that Greg groans again, triumphant and incredulous and so _fucking_ turned on. His head lolls back. John’s mouth finds his exposed neck immediately, laving his tongue and then his teeth over Greg’s mid-case stubble. 

He wishes he could watch as John bites his jaw, his neck, his clavicle, licks into the hollow of his throat. Instead he pants stupidly into the warm flat, doing his best not to come. 

John sits up, smirking. Greg can’t string two words together for the life, so it’s just as well that John presses two of his fingers into Greg’s mouth. He sucks dumbly, mouth wetter than he’s ever known it to be, and lets go of his own cock to envelop John’s fully in his wide calloused hand. 

He sucks with abandon, stroking his tongue along the underside of John’s fingers like he’d done a minute ago to Greg’s cock. That makes John flush, a pretty high color on his cheeks that spreads down to his neck and chest. 

Greg’s brain is close to shorting but he takes the moment to appreciate the solid scarred bulk of the man on top of him: he’s fit, properly fit, with more definition in his shoulders and chest than his jumpers would indicate.

John adds a third finger to his mouth and Greg’s hips thrust forward, disrupting the rhythm he has going on John’s cock. 

“Enough,” John says. He withdraws his hand, shifts forward and up onto his knees, and reaches around himself. 

Part of Greg must’ve known what John’s goal was in wetting his fingers, but he’s still nearly overcome when he realizes John has started to finger himself open. He’s half a mind to spin John around so he can watch, but he’ll settle for watching the pleasure play out across John’s face: eyes screwed shut, mouth open, little huffs of air escaping every few moments. Greg steadies John at the hips and leans forward to suck at John’s nipple. 

“ _Fuck_ , Greg,” John gasps. Greg’s hands roam, one splayed across John’s lower back as the other scratches lightly over his chest and stomach. Greg could not ask for a better body to find on top of his own: muscled upper arms, broad solid shoulders, with a pleasing layer of softness to the hips and stomach. 

John’s forearm tenses and he moans, causing Greg’s hands to clench. His thumb digs into the soft flesh beside John’s hipbone, eliciting another, deeper moan; Greg notes that for later.

“D’you have a condom?” Greg asks, voice rough.

“Side drawer,” John grunts. Greg gropes for one and rolls it on, grateful for the extra endurance it will afford him. 

John withdraws his hand and shifts his weight to one knee. “Lay on down, DI Lestrade.” 

Greg rearranges his limbs, lays back to rest his head on the sofa’s armrest, and all of a sudden— _it’s bloody fucking time_ —John’s sinking down onto him. With just spit and lubrication from the condom there’s a _drag_ that Greg finds maddeningly hot. 

John pauses for a beat once he’s fully sheathed, arse tensing and relaxing in turns against Greg’s groin. It’s a rhythm he knows he’ll be feeling for days.

“How does that feel?” 

“How d’you think?” John shoots back, exasperated and humored, the closest to overwhelmed Greg’s ever seen him. Before Greg can answer John starts to move, a gentle rocking that must be hitting him just right. Greg’s absolutely on board with this course of events, hips straining upward even as John plants a hand in the middle of his chest to keep him still. 

“All this and we’re going to take it slow?” Greg says, trying his own smirk on for size. 

“Careful what you ask for,” John grunts. He picks up the pace, though, riding Greg like he was born to do it. His eyes fall shut, his brow furrows, and Greg’s fucking _enraptured_ by the right of him. He brings his hands up John’s sides, scratching and soothing, drawing shallow grunts out of John when he flicks thumbnails over his nipples. 

It’s all very nearly too much. Greg closes his eyes for a moment, nothing more, but he must miss something because suddenly John moans louder than he has all night. He speeds up his rhythm, thighs straining as he impales himself on Greg’s cock. 

He looks on helplessly, kneading John’s arse and trying not to move too much. On a downstroke John’s hips do this marvelous little slide and all of a sudden he comes, sobbing, ropes of semen landing on Greg’s chest.

Greg curls his hands under John’s arse and thrusts up into him, hips aching for control after being at John’s mercy for so long. Only four or five breaths later he follows, groaning low and loud as he pulses hotly into John’s tight channel.

His ears are ringing and John’s clenching and unclenching is bringing him right to the edge of overstimulated, so Greg doesn’t freak out right away when he hears a familiar voice behind him.

He takes a breath. “Am I hallucinating or is Sherlock here?”

John casts an apologetic glance down at him, and Greg closes his eyes against the humiliation of Sherlock walking in on his sometime-boss fucking his would-be-boyfriend.

“Really, John,” Sherlock sighs, “you’re much too young to be taking Viagra.”

“What?” John says. Sherlock walks toward them, and Greg has no choice but to look up. His hair and coat are damp and his cheeks are red-tinged with cold, but he’s not furious. In fact, if Greg had to hazard a guess, he would identify this mood as the “just made a deduction” variety with the added bonus of "may embarrass some punters."

“You've never brought a sexual partner home to the flat, certainly not on a weekday, and never shown tendencies toward exhibitionism. Stimulants are the most logical explanation.”

“I’m not taking bloody _Viagra_ , Sherlock.”

“My calculations are flawless. Why, then, have you suddenly acquired the procreative drive of a rabbit?”

John crosses his arms, shifting his weight in the process, and Greg is suddenly reminded that he’s still buried to the hilt in the wet heat of John’s arse.

“Your parameters were incomplete. I've only slept with people I've just met since you've known me. Give me a partner I know and like, who's this hot and this willing... Well.” John smirks down at Greg, who has never been so confused and so turned on at the same time.

“I overlooked a crucial variable and you didn’t tell me? You’ve never indicated differing sexual appetites for one-time and repeat partners!” Sherlock says, voice bordering on a whine.

“Well, it didn’t cross my mind until just now, didn’t it? The sample size was too small.”

Sherlock snorts, eyes flicking toward the come drying on Greg’s chest. “Indeed.”

“Um,” Greg says.

“Right.” John puts one foot down on the floor. Greg tries valiantly to melt into the upholstery as John eases himself off of Greg’s cock, wincing. 

“Did you stretch inadequately?” Sherlock asks. _Man doesn't miss a thing._

“No, Sherlock, I rode DI Lestrade like a bloody horse for ten minutes and then nearly split myself in half when you walked in.”

Confusion flashes across Sherlock’s face, a rare enough expression that Greg almost laughs.

“Why would—oh.” His mouth drops into an O, and _bloody buggering fuck,_ Greg’s traitorous cock twitches hopefully at the sight not two minutes after his biggest orgasm in recent memory. He knows Sherlock isn’t part of the deal, but that image will be going right into his wank bank and remain at the top of the queue forever and ever, amen.

Sherlock blinks a few times. “Well, carry on, then.”

“Sorry?” Greg glances at John, who is in turn looking intently at Sherlock, conducting some kind of wordless conversation that makes Greg feel terribly like an intruder. He moves to stand, but John stays him with one upturned palm.

“You never said.” Sherlock’s voice is quiet, private, bordering on tender. Greg’s never heard anything like it before.

“I didn’t think it was relevant.”

“Of course it’s _relevant_ , John.” Raising his eyes to the ceiling, shaking his head just enough to set his curls shivering, Sherlock looks much more himself. “It’s data about you. Of course I want to observe it.”

_Fuck me,_ Greg thinks, _that’s the sweetest thing I’ve ever heard him say._

“Come here,” John says, and with just two long-legged strides Sherlock’s kissing him. _Sherlock_ is _kissing_ him just inches from Greg and his unflaggingly hopeful cock. Greg can’t even be properly mortified at his own sweaty and come-covered nudity because John is _naked,_ nestled against Sherlock, his tender reddened arse framed by the loose folds of Sherlock’s coat.

Greg’s so enraptured that he jumps when John reaches back to touch him. One warm hand planted on his chest, keeping him prone, and fuck if Greg can’t feel John’s pulse racing atop his own.

It’s quiet but Greg doesn’t mind. No one can wait like a detective. He slides into the silence as easy as anything, closes his eyes against the heat of John’s palm.

A minute later John and Sherlock part. In his stocking-feet John’s just about up to Sherlock’s shoulders, but he _commands_ the room nonetheless. Greg feels like he’s strung as tightly as a violin, held taut under John’s fingertips and aching to be loosed.

“There,” John says, and Sherlock— _bless_ him, how does John do that?—actually listens. He backs up and sits in the armchair opposite the sofa, coat askew and legs sprawled out.

John turns his attention back to Greg. “How about you clean me up?”

Greg swings his legs down, figuring he’ll go into the toilet to grab a cloth, but then John steps between his knees. “This’ll do just fine,” John says, running his fingers over Greg’s mouth.

_Fuck._ Greg doesn’t give himself time to think, just _goes,_ and starts pressing kisses to John’s wrist and sides and hipbones. He smells incredible and tastes like clean sweat when Greg licks at the crease of his thigh. He runs his palms over the backs of John’s legs, warming him, kneading at and scratching over his pert arse cheeks. He can’t get his mouth everywhere at once but he tries, running his cheeks along John’s pelvis and biting at his inner thighs.

“Lovely, that is,” John sighs, hands cupping Greg’s face as he finally takes John’s half-hard cock into his mouth. Most of his come ended up on Greg’s stomach, but he still tastes so _used_ that it sends a shudder through Greg’s body. 

Greg pulls off his cock and turns him round, licking broad strokes up John’s arse cheeks. He detours to bite one pert curve, eliciting a huff of laughter above him, then licks right into his tender arsehole. John _yowls_ , Sherlock takes a sharp breath, and this is kinkier than anything Greg’s done in his entire _life_. He licks again up from John’s perineum and into his hole, dipping in as far as he can. He carries on until his tongue’s fatigued and John is quivering under his hands, blushing even as he leaves a final quiet kiss on John’s hole.

“See that?” John says, and Greg knows that voice is not for him. He keeps his eyes shut and his forehead pressed against John’s lower back, trying not to focus on how much the sound of Sherlock’s breathing is turning him on. He’s both wrung out and roaring for another go. 

Then Sherlock speaks, and the game begins.

“Greg. Stand up.”


End file.
